


in half, in half (if we live to see the other side of this)

by gunsandbutter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-09
Updated: 2007-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunsandbutter/pseuds/gunsandbutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They haven’t done this in weeks, and James’s skin aches everywhere Sirius touches him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in half, in half (if we live to see the other side of this)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for infidelity.

The door has barely shut behind them when Sirius turns on him, eyes flashing, and they’ve fucked a thousand times but this is _different._

This is teeth and rage and desperation, wide-open mouths and bruising hands. Sirius’s face is dark and half-mad, and James is slightly terrified and harder than he ever imagined possible.

They haven’t done this in weeks

 _(beautiful Lily, sweet and cranky, hands forever stroking the firm hull of her belly—stupid, naïve Regulus dead in an alley somewhere—and of course The War, always The War)_

and James’s skin aches everywhere Sirius touches him.

Sirius tastes familiar, madness and disaster and too much of everything. Sirius clutches at James’s hips with desperate strength, bites hard at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and James makes a humiliating noise and pulls hard at Sirius’s hair.

They twist and shudder their way to the floor, a writhing mess of skin and sweat and long bodies wriggling out of stubborn clothing.

Sirius’s hands are ruthless, breaking him open and dragging slow across every nerve.

Their bodies fit together as they always have. They don’t do this much— _James_ doesn’t do this much, but Sirius is restless and demanding and James is really in no position to argue, not with Sirius rocking impatiently against him and sending sparks flickering up James’s spine.

Sirius snaps forward, all sharp hipbones and deadly precision, and James convulses, fingers scraping slick and helpless against the floor.

Jesus.

It won’t last long—it can’t, not like this. Too soon, Sirius is choking out a sob against James’s back, low and wounded, and James is gone, can only shake and shudder and come. It hits him hard and fucking _hurts_ , wrenching and cramping and oh god oh god oh _god_ he is ripping at the seams, every part of him is flying apart and Sirius’s skin is so hot it burns.

They freeze in place for a moment, muscles tense and quivering—and then James’s arms give out under him, and they collapse to the floor in a mess of ragged breaths and sweat-slick skin.

 _Fuck._

James draws in a long, painful breath and tries to assess the situation. His legs ache. His elbows ache. He is probably paralyzed or dead or something. He tries to move, but Sirius is heavy and James’s spine is long gone, melted and dragged out through his cock into the tight, damp circle of Sirius’s long fingers.

The thought makes him twitch against the floor, raw and over-sensitized, and he winces. His skin itches with sweat and semen, which ought to be a great deal more disgusting and unpleasant than it is. The flush of blood just under his skin is fading fast, leaving him clammy and curiously numb to everything but Sirius—the damp tickle of his hair, the wet heat of his mouth trembling loose and slack at the nape of James’s neck.

Sirius’s heartbeat is frantic against James’s back, and James just lies there and absorbs the rhythm—the hummingbird-quick throb of Sirius’s blood pounding against him, through him, reverberating in the floorboards and echoing in his ears.

The steady pulse has nearly lulled James to sleep when Sirius suddenly pulls away. It is abrupt and a little painful, and James grunts in surprise as Sirius collapses off to one side and immediately begins surging up on unsteady legs. The sudden assault of cool air on exposed skin makes him seriously consider dragging Sirius back down to keep him warm, but instead he closes his eyes and listens blindly to the graceless slap of Sirius’s feet against the floorboards as he stumbles away.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps, but the flat is quiet and chilly when he opens his eyes. He blinks a few times, adjusting, taking in the familiar shadows stretching out across the floor, the pile of their discarded Auror robes.

It occurs to him that it might be prudent to search out Sirius, just to make sure he hasn’t fallen onto his wand or drowned in the bath or something equally stupid. He manages to haul himself to his feet with a minimum of catastrophe, then staggers off on Sirius’s trail.

He rarely has to look far, and this time is no exception. Sirius is standing naked in the kitchen, smoking a fag. Content with having found him, James leans against the counter and just looks at him for a while, idly observing the curls and wisps of smoke as they dissolve into the darkness.

For his part, Sirius ignores James completely—at least he does until James snags his cigarette, at which point his mood shifts from studied disinterest to silent, scowling displeasure. He narrows his eyes in James’s direction, lips thinning. He undoubtedly believes he looks rather threatening, and perhaps he does; James wouldn’t know. He has lived and fought and fucked with Sirius for too many years to be the slightest bit unnerved by even the deadliest of his glares.

James takes a drag and breathes in the taste of smoke and addiction, deep and lingering. The familiar burn in his lungs is nearly as enjoyable as the cold heat of Sirius’s irritation, and he allows himself a quick, secret smile before turning back to toss a careless glance in Sirius’s direction. “What, did you want this?”

To his credit, Sirius makes a valiant effort to carry on glowering and being bad-tempered. In the end, of course—at least where James, sex, and cigarettes are involved— it simply isn’t in his nature. He plucks the fag from James’s fingers and brings it quickly to his lips, sulky and possessive. Sirius sucks hard, cheeks hollowing, and James distractedly pushes down the swell of desire that stirs at the sight. If he slammed Sirius against the wall every time the urge struck him, they’d never find the time to do anything else—bring down Voldemort, make trouble at Order meetings, tease Remus about his top-secret “assignments.”

Also, they would starve.

They very well might anyway, James thinks, reluctantly shifting his attention to the barren wasteland of Sirius’s cabinets. He sighs a little. “I suppose it’s beyond the realm of imagination that you might actually have any food in this place.”

Sirius flicks ash from his cigarette and shrugs. “Sorry, mate. As you may have noticed, I haven’t got a wife hanging about waiting to fetch groceries for me.”

James looks up sharply at that. For a moment he wonders if the conversation is about to take a nasty turn, but Sirius seems preoccupied and distant, too distracted to be spiteful.

“We can fix that, you know,” James offers, finally admitting defeat in his hunt for food and returning to slump against the counter. “I keep telling you, Marlene’s been giving you the eye since—”

He cuts himself off, surprised, as Sirius abruptly turns and ducks out of the kitchen without a word. James trails slowly after him, puzzled, until Sirius disappears into the flat’s tiny bathroom and James hears a thud like knees hitting tile, immediately followed by the unmistakable sound of retching.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He sprints the remaining distance, only to pull up short as the door slams in his face, nearly clocking him in the nose. The lock clicks threateningly, and James slams his hand against the door in frustration. “Tosser!”

He knows Sirius well enough to realize that no amount of _alohomora_ will allow him entry. He tries it, just in case, before beginning the tedious process of disarming Sirius’s wards.

It takes a fair bit of negotiation and wheedling, as Sirius’s wards seem more resistant than usual to his sweet-talking. Fortunately, not even Sirius Black is particularly adroit at spellwork when he’s throwing up in the lav, and it is only a few minutes before the last ward surrenders and the door creaks open.

Sirius looks bloody miserable, of course. He’s stopped retching, but he has that _look_ on his face—that steely look of silent torment that always makes James want to break things or kill people or do whatever it takes to fix it, make everything all right again, because it’s _Sirius_ and Sirius deserves to be happy.

James slides down next to him, bumping their shoulders together. “Did you really think you could keep me out?”

Sirius laughs, a little, hoarse and humorless. “For a while.”

James glances at him from the corner of his eye, considering his next move. “Your wards need some work,” he offers helpfully.

“Fuck off.”

James smiles.

They sit in silence for a while, shoulders pressed tightly together. Sirius smells achingly familiar, yet not

 _(roll-ups, other people’s blood, wet dog and the sour tang of vomit)_

and eventually James reaches out and curves a hand around Sirius’s neck, tugs at him until Sirius surrenders and curls against James’s side like a large, sullen puppy.

“Don’t be a cunt,” James says seriously, nosing against the damp hair behind Sirius’s ear.

Sirius shrugs noncommittally, but he doesn’t push James away.

Long lashes flutter against James’s shoulder. James breathes in Sirius’s scent—closes his eyes—doesn’t think about Lily or Regulus or the knife-edge of Sirius’s gaze, honed sharp and cutting straight down to the bone.


End file.
